


Straightlaced

by Mazarin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Corsetry, Explicit Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Sherlock in a corset, Utter PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:24:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s in the way he moves, John thinks. In the way his body twists, arcs, stoops gracefully to pick up a pen from the floor. The line across his back is suddenly visible where before John had only notice a proud, long stretch of aubergine silk – tight, yes, but now even more so as he leans, and the little ridge across his middle back has John starting to wonder.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Straightlaced

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick and dirty response to a [post on Tumblr, reblogged by Corpsereviver2](http://corpsereviver2.tumblr.com/post/56141849129/trickybonmot-argyle4eva-decadentwallpaper), where it looks like Sherlock is wearing a corset under his clothes.

It’s in the way he moves, John thinks. In the way his body twists, arcs, stoops gracefully to pick up a pen from the floor. The line across his back is suddenly visible where before John had only notice a proud, long stretch of aubergine silk – tight, yes, but now even more so as he leans, and the little ridge across his middle back has John starting to wonder.

………………………………

Sherlock likes it tight, but not too tight; the laces pulled just so far as to be a gentle reminder against his ribs every time he wants to take a deep breath, the cut of the over the hips enough to give him a slightly nipped-in waist, drawn an inch or two smaller than his usual. On these days his trousers are barely small enough even when the tabs are tightened down as far as they will go.

The first time he put one on was for a disguise, but he finds he likes the way the steels force his body to comply with their demanding shape, the busk holding him with perfect posture even as he wants to slouch down in utter exhaustion. It’s a physical reality even in the most strenuous of circumstances – you are tall, you are strong,  and you shall not be defeated.

…………………………………………

It’s a warm August night when John finally asks, Sherlock in shirtsleeves rolled over his elbows, standing so beautifully straight as he plays a bright and complex melody that seems to float away on the breeze from their open windows.  John waits until the quiet concert is over, and before he loses his nerve he stands, walks to where Sherlock has bent over his violin case, and runs a gentle finger down his back.

“You must be at least a little uncomfortable,” John says, encountering the ridge along the top, and traces gently down the laces on his back. “It’s all right; I don’t mind  if… if you’d rather not…” John falters to a halt, acutely aware that Sherlock is staring over his shoulder with narrowed eyes, confusion and a bit of uncertainty wrinkling the skin over his nose. He turns and assesses John for a long moment.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Sherlock says, “if you assume the corset is making me uncomfortable. It isn’t.”

“Of course not,” John says quickly. “I only thought, with the heat…” Christ, what _had_ he thought?  It’s a bit difficult to remember now with Sherlock looming over him, so close now John can smell him, the hint of cologne still there even after a long, hot day. John bets if he pushes his nose into Sherlock’s neck it would smell even more strongly there, and he realizes in a flash he’s just started a conversation he’s not at all sure he will keep control of.

Sherlock smirks at him, predatory, and takes a step back to perch on the arm of his chair and begins to unbutton his shirt, unroll the cuffs, pull the tails out and away from his waistband. John is drawn forward, mesmerized, as the shirt falls from Sherlock’s shoulders, revealing a green satin corset, the color as light as his eyes and a barely-there wash against his pale skin.

John swallows heavily. “It’s beautiful,” he says, and bites his lip. It’s more than that, the worksmanship clear in the perfectly parallel lines that hold the steels in place along Sherlock’s sides, his back, his stomach. There’s a tone-on-tone pattern of green ivy leaves winding up the busk, and the entire corset is edged in pale blue. It’s pretty, delicate, and utterly unexpected, and the rush of desire John feels at Sherlock’s obvious trust makes him a bit bold.

“Stand up and turn around, then,” he whispers, and Sherlock does, gracefully turning to show John his back. The deep green corset lacings cross between perfectly even rows of eyelets, with a tiny glimpse of Sherlock’s skin showing through the gap. John follows the double line of lacing—pulled long from the middle then brought around to Sherlock’s front and tied off in a bow—that allows Sherlock to tighten his own corset.

It makes John oddly pleased that no one is doing it for him.

He holds his breath and reaches out to loop one long lace in his finger and tugs until the tie lets go, the laces falling a bit loose, and then entirely slack when Sherlock takes a full breath that expands his chest completely.  The corset itself begins to slip down but is still held together.

“How do you…” John asks, and Sherlock hesitates a moment, then undoes his flies and pushes his trousers just over his hips. He’s half-hard, a fullness so apparent John has to work not to stare and adjust himself in sympathy as his own cock is pushing hard against the front of his jeans. Sherlock is utterly unabashed, giving John sly peeks from under his lashes as he unhooks the busk one loop at a time, top to bottom, and by the time he gets to the bottom loop John grasps both open sides and pulls Sherlock to him and kisses him hard, knocking the breath from his own lungs. He slides his hands over Sherlock’s naked skin, aching to touch, to drown, but pulls away abruptly when Sherlock sucks in a shuddering breath.

John steps back and stares. Sherlock’s entire torso, from under his pectoral muscles to where his waist is partially hidden by the waistband of his shorts, is lined with deep, red marks— the steel boning of the corset still apparent in the ridges and valleys pressed into his skin.

“Everything is incredibly sensitive at first,” Sherlock says. “Even the lightest touch is almost overwhelming.”

John grins, then drops to his knees with his hands on Sherlock’s hips. “Is that so?” he asks, then leans forward and blows gently across the flat, red, double line of the busk imprinted over Sherlock’s belly button.  Sherlock’s stomach muscles jump so John does it again, until Sherlock slumps back against the edge of the arm of the chair, eyes heavy with desire as John looks up at him from where he’s knelt between Sherlock’s thighs. 

“I thought you’d find it ridiculous,” Sherlock says, caressing John’s cheek with soft, gentle swipes of his thumb. “Off-putting, even. But you’re always a surprise, aren’t you? Especially now, like this. You think it’s hot, you’re aroused by it and you’re just going to go with it, not think about it until later when you have a full blown breakdown because you suddenly realize you like men in women’s underwear and that might be a kinky step too far.”

John nuzzles Sherlock’s thigh, the hair tickling his nose and making him grin. Sherlock, always thinking he’s one step ahead of everyone else. “No, actually. I don’t have an issue with it. I do think it’s hot, I thought you looked beautiful, but not half so much as you will with your cock in my mouth. Now stop deducing me and let me suck you.”

Sherlock smiles and slowly slides his underwear down until John tangles his fingers with Sherlock’s and takes over, pulling the dark briefs until Sherlock can step out of them. Sherlock leans back against the chair arm and John splays both hands over his stomach, bracketing his cock. Christ, he’s a picture, thighs wide open and sweat giving a sheen to his collarbones. The floor creaks as John leans forward until he can kiss the marks from the corset that stop just over Sherlock’s hipbones and down over his pelvis.

“Tease,” Sherlock says with gritted teeth, and shoves his hands into John’s hair, massages his scalp and tries to encourage with a desperate attempt to hook one long leg around John’s waist. John just laughs, shakes him off and drags his lips from the tip of Sherlock’s cock to the base and back up before opening his mouth and swirling his tongue around the head. Sherlock moans, a deep, resonant sound that goes straight to John’s cock and leaves him almost painfully aroused.

The night has fully bloomed across their windows, and the flat is perfectly quiet except for the sounds of pedestrians and traffic and general London noise; the quiet murmur of John’s mouth as he sighs and moans around Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock is breathing heavily with his hands still in John’s hair, tugging lightly but not pulling hard until he gasps, sighs, shudders and comes, hot and bittersweet.

John swallows quickly then sinks down to rest on his heels, chest heaving. He leans against Sherlock’s thigh and waits, because despite all his bravado he did just suck off Sherlock Holmes and God help him he is so turned on he can barely see straight. Visions of Sherlock held fast in the grip of pale green satin will fuel his fantasies for years, hazy scenes—slowly pulling lace after lace from the eyelets until he can part the corset over Sherlock’s back next time—swirling in his head as he palms himself through his jeans.

He finally undoes his flies and pulls his cock out, but before he can barely stroke himself a deep voice growls in his ear.

“Take your shirt off, leave your jeans on, and I want your gun tucked in the waistband.” Sherlock grins like a shark at John’s stupefied expression.  “What?” he says, and dips his head to bite at John’s neck while giving John’s cock a long, firm stroke that makes John gasp and moan. “You’re not the only one with a few kinks.”

 

 

 


	2. Straightlaced - notes and illustrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A word on corsetry, with some pictures.

Just a couple of notes, definitions, and illustrative pictures. I've been wearing a corset as part of an 1886 costume for about a decade, so I have a few pictures. AO3 wouldn't let me post more than this, so if you want to see more let me know and I'll reblog my costuming post on tumblr.

A busk is the double steel strip that goes down the middle of the front of the corset to give it center strength. There are pins one side that go into holes on the other and hold the front closed. This is how you put it on - wrap it around yourself with the laces in the back and hook the busk up the front. If you're unfortunate enough to not have a ladies maid, here's how you can tighten your corset yourself, as Sherlock does in the story:

Mine is an 1886 corset, with heavily gusseted hips to give that Victorian hourglass shape. Sherlock likely wouldn't have one like this - I imagined his as a straight, longline underbust corset, like this (you can see the hooks for the busk better than in mine, which has a flap to cover them:

 

Wearing a corset, even one that isn't laced tightly (supertight lacing is a bit of a myth; you can't breathe if you do that), does leave some interesting marks on your body after an entire day in it. In this case, I write from experience! If you have any questions, please let me know. I love talking about it.

 


End file.
